


Some Days Were Like This

by Silicu (silmil)



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Izumo does his best, M/M, Someone needs to get Mikoto to a therapist, and by therapist I don't mean Totsuka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 21:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmil/pseuds/Silicu
Summary: Some days this was as much as he got. As much as he could offer, and while he could keep Mikoto involved for a time, he would sink right back into his depression the moment Izumo was done with him.But on the other days, it was all worth it.





	Some Days Were Like This

**Author's Note:**

> So, happy birthday to Mikoto? This might not have been the happiest way to celebrate it, buuuuut well. XD What can I do? Precious Red King gives me ALL the angst feels!

Some days were like this.

Mikoto hadn’t shown his face in the bar for close to a week. Normally Izumo would do something earlier, or rather, he would send Tatara to deal with their ill-tempered King. He’d been very busy this week, though, and Tatara had been off visiting family. And it was most likely due to this prolonged absence and Mikoto’s sulking that the Homra bar was empty tonight.

As much as their band of misfits enjoyed their time there, they had grown attuned to when Mikoto’s bad mood tended to get explosive. Namely, they knew to stay away from the combination of his annoyance and Tatara being out of town.

Izumo was fairly sure that, this time at least, the cause for the King’s foul mood actually _was_ Tatara being gone, rather than a depression-fueled mood swing. Which was why he hadn’t made Mikoto’s sulk a priority so far. Sometimes Tatara had other things to take care of, and getting into a prissy fit about it was neither healthy, nor a behavior that should be encouraged.

But this had gone on for a _week_. And Izumo knew that, regardless what his reason for closing himself off in the second floor room, Mikoto’s mind had a tendency to sink deep into a black hole when he was alone for too long. This had been too long.

He finished stocking the soft drinks in the fridge, made sure the sign outside the door was turned to _‘CLOSED’_ and turned the lights off in the bar. He finally had a bit of free time. And more importantly, a chance to see to his King.

The second floor hallway was dim and stuffy. Izumo himself had opened the windows in the other rooms, knowing full well that would be the only clean air possibly reaching Mikoto. But it was still not nice to feel the gloom radiating from that door.  

He didn’t bother knocking. He knew well enough that Mikoto wouldn’t respond. Probably wouldn’t even hear him, depending on how deep he’d sunk into the black hole of depression and terror in his head. He pushed the door open and took a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the darkness inside.

Mikoto sat in the lone armchair in the room, his throne as they all liked to joke about, and looked not to have moved for a while. A _long_ while. He was slumped back, arms flung over the armrests and his head tilted to lean on the back, staring unseeingly at the blank ceiling.

Izumo had come just in time, he decided. After all, things hadn’t gone far enough for Mikoto to move to the sofa yet. Feeling unable to even sit up was always a good indicator that he’d been stewing for too long. If he was still on the armchair, there was still a chance he might be raised without needing Tatara’s help.

“You’ve been here a while,” Izumo said to break the silence. Mikoto didn’t so much as twitch. “Why do you insist on making the room so damn musty no one can breathe in here?” he continued, as if a response hadn’t been expected.

He crossed to the windows and opened one, allowing for a draft with the still-opened door. The nights weren’t as cold yet, so it was refreshing rather than chilly.

The only thing that moved were the ends of Mikoto’s hair softly being blown by the draft. He was not going to make this easy, was he?

Izumo lit a smoke and watched the still figure from the window for a bit. The short flick of the flame illuminated the room briefly and not for the first time Izumo wondered how Mikoto could stand to live in such a blank, dead place. He’d never let Tatara decorate, never even bothered to get a bedside lamp or a wardrobe or anything. Just a rutty old bed, a rutty old sofa and a rattled small fridge. And the throne that was regularly moved in and out.

Empty. Desolate. It looked abandoned, even with Mikoto sitting in the middle of it. Izumo hated it, because it showcased Mikoto’s general mood and frame of mind too damn precisely. He hated how his King, his _friend_ , kept fighting and often losing to his own mind.  

Depression was a dark illness. It destroyed people by making them destroy themselves. Mikoto had never been a happy man, not since before Izumo had first met him in high school. Becoming the Red King had only made it so much worse.

He remained there, ruminating in his own thoughts, until he finished his smoke, then put it out in a small ashtray sat on the windowsill. Then he pulled off his scarf and shades and dropped them haphazardly on the foot of the sofa and opened the top couple of buttons of his shirt.

He made his way across the room to stand right before where Mikoto was slumped in the armchair. He observed his still body for a moment longer. Mikoto’s eyes didn’t even flick towards him.

Well then. Izumo would like to see how much longer he could remain disinterested.

He reached out and brushed Mikoto’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. No reaction.

He stepped closer, his feet pressing into Mikoto’s spread thighs and laid his hands on his chest, palms open, pressing lightly. A twitch. _There we go._

He slipped to his knees in a single fluid motion, hands sliding down the sides of Mikoto’s white shirt with his descent. A blink. Then Mikoto’s head moved and he looked down at Izumo. His eyes were still distant, face still blank. But he wasn’t entirely dissociated now.

Izumo held his gaze as his thumbs pressed under the hem of the shirt, touching the hot skin underneath. Mikoto always felt so hot to the touch, even to his clansmen. Izumo wondered if he would feel like he was burning to someone not touched by his flame.

He didn’t speak as he slid his thumbs in a slow ark over Mikoto’s hips, hooked them under the hem of his pants and slowly, teasingly brought them together to the buckle of his belt. It clinked almost melodically as Izumo toyed with it. Mikoto shifted in his seat and _really_ looked at him.

Izumo smirked.

“See something interesting?” he asked as he let go of Mikoto’s belt to run his palms down his jeans this time, pressing more firmly to be felt through the jeans. Mikoto didn’t respond, but Izumo could hear his breathing speed up a touch. He scratched with his fingernails over the inside of Mikoto’s thighs and saw a minute shiver run over him.

“I think you do,” Izumo said quietly, never breaking the eye contact between them.

Izumo teased. Slowly, mercilessly. He ran his arms all the way down to Mikoto’s ankles, then up again to push the hem of his shirt just a touch higher against his abdomen. He reached under it, splaying his palms over the warm expanse of skin, felt Mikoto’s heat, felt his power dancing just beneath the skin. Felt his constant strain to keep it there.

But he also felt the desire building inside the man slowly, dangerously. Mikoto’s eyes were darkening with want, no longer vacant, no longer far away.

Izumo loved playing with fire. A part of him thought it was that dark corner of his own psyche that had brought him here. It was that chaotic streak, that wish to set things on fire just so he could see what happened.

Most of the times, they just burned. But others…

When Mikoto moved, it was with lighting speed that belied his previous stillness. He grabbed the back of Izumo’s head and pulled him in, pressing his face where a palpable hardness was forming under his jeans. The grip was just on the edge of painful, demanding and hard as still. Izumo couldn’t pull away if Mikoto didn’t let him. But he had no intention of doing so.

Neither did he intend to give Mikoto what he so impolitely demanded.

He opened his mouth, breathed out hotly into Mikoto’s still clothed crotch. Then he closed his teeth just enough to be uncomfortable to Mikoto’s sensitive bits that his face was being so discourteously pressed into.

Mikoto grunted, then the pressure eased. Better, Izumo thought. Then the hand on the back of his head tangled gently through his hair, apologetically stroking warm fingers against his scalp. _There we go._  

Izumo pulled his face back from Mikoto’s jeans and brought his hands there to finally undo his belt. He held Mikoto’s eyes, Mikoto’s attention on himself the entire time, never once looking away. It was important to do it, when his goal was to bring Mikoto out of his head. He had to have something else to focus on. To anchor himself to. Izumo was stable, strong and durable enough to be that rock he anchored to.

He almost envied Tatara, sometimes. He could make Mikoto _want_ to break out of his darkest thoughts without the need for an anchor. He gave Mikoto the desire, conviction, the motivation to keep connected to the world, rather to a single, fleeting thing or moment. But Izumo couldn’t do that.

He could only let Mikoto hold onto him, so that was what he did.

He held him pinned in place with his gaze, with his touch, held him there as the temperature in the room seemed to rise with Mikoto’s building desire. He held him until it all built too high, until the rush reached its peak and Mikoto shuddered with the power of it.

Only then, did Mikoto’s eyes fall closed and his head lolled forward, as it for a moment he couldn’t even hold it up. Not back to the top of the throne, but forward, shin digging into his own collarbone and face still visible to Izumo.

Izumo released his focus for a moment then, gave Mikoto a moment to take a breath as he cleaned him up and did his pants back up. There was the lightest flush to Mikoto’s face now, as he breathed deeply with his lips parted and his face relaxed. Despite of his closed eyes, he looked a lot more _here_ than he had been at the start.

Izumo leaned in, pressed a kiss to the top of Mikoto’s head. Mikoto blinked, slowly, faster to react to stimuli again, looking up at Izumo as he stood. His face was his regular level of impassive now, not as blank and empty. Maybe even with a slightly cranky squint around his eyes, because Izumo looked like he was moving away.

But Izumo waited. Some days this was as much as he got. As much as he could offer, and while he could keep Mikoto involved for a time, he would sink right back into his depression the moment Izumo was done with him. Some days, he felt little better than _useless_ when he couldn’t give Mikoto what he needed to bring himself the rest of the way out of his head.

But some days…

Some days, like today, Mikoto would reach out an arm, wrap it around Izumo’s middle and pull him in. Some days, like today, Mikoto would press his face into Izumo’s side, grounding himself the rest of the way, breathing him in and feeling his presence _right there_. Some days, like today, Izumo would be _enough_.

He settled against the armrest of the chair, stroking the fire-red hair and smiling.

Some days, like today, with Mikoto’s arm around his waist keeping him there, and Mikoto’s face pressed into his ribs so hard he could almost feel them creak, with his fingers buried into Mikoto’s hair and with Mikoto’s breaths coming deep and steady, some days…

Some days, it was all worth it.


End file.
